


The Melancholy of Cecil G. Palmer

by Chickadddddd



Series: Melancholy AU [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cecil is Mostly Human, Eventual Relationships, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Past Earl Harlan/Cecil Palmer, References to Drugs, Smoking, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, frustrated Earl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chickadddddd/pseuds/Chickadddddd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things appeared in Night Vale all the time. Dangerous things were equally common. Strange and dangerous, Earl knew how to handle. He’d been handling those things all his life. But <i>people</i> appearing in Night Vale, seemingly neither strange nor dangerous? This scientist, this Carlos, warranted close study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to [OrdinaryBird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OrdinaryBird) for letting me bend her ear while coming up with the concept for this setting, adding her own ideas, and editing what came out! Thanks to [valda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valda) for additional editing, and the Trash Heap for providing support and hilarious commentary.

The angels appeared on the same day _he_ did.

Earl Harlan rubbed his face, grimacing at his pickup's scratchy radio. “Angels? _Really?_ You've got to be kidding me.” Frustrated, he twisted the volume dial, snapping it into the off position, the Voice of Night Vale cut off mid-sentence.

He closed his eyes, allowed himself three deep breaths, then turned the key and listened to his engine growl to life. He'd been parked on the shoulder of Route 800, wondering what to do about the ghost-car issue, but now he hastily pulled a U-turn and headed for the outskirts of Night Vale.

He could see them well before he pulled into Josie's driveway, owing to their extreme height and strange, lightless radiance. Their proportions seemed roughly human, though elongated, at least if Earl looked out of the corner of his eye; they had multiple sets of wings, and... “Is that... seven eyes?” he muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt.

One of the angels – _Really, Cecil?_ – held the door open for the old woman Josie as she carried a tray of lemonade and homemade muffins out onto the porch.

“Earl? That you, dear?”

“Hi Josie,” he replied with a little wave. “I guess you were expecting me.”

Josie just grinned at him and put the tray down on the little patio table. Earl took a small notepad and pencil out of the back pocket of his jeans and took a seat across from her. He eyed the angels warily but they didn't seem interested in him; they were inspecting the newly-replaced light bulb above the front door.

“So, any strange behaviour yet? Anything really worrisome?” Earl asked, pencil ready.

“Not yet. They make sounds like trumpets, or perhaps a whole orchestra, when they're excited. So far they seem to enjoy helping with chores – you know, cleaning, baking and such. I might send them on a run to the Ralph's later, if they persist,” Josie explained, taking a sip of lemonade. “You know what I think?”

“Hm?” Earl said between scratching notes down on the pad.

“I think it's quite thoughtful. The boy hasn't been around much lately. I think he wanted to make sure I had help. That I wasn't getting lonely.” She smiled around her glass, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

Earl glanced up at her, and his frown softened. “Still,” he tapped the pencil on his lower lip, “it's probably better if they aren't around. If we can even manage that at this point.”

Josie tilted her chin toward the writing implement. “Better put that away now, before someone sees, dear.”

Earl chuckled. “I guess I'd better. Wouldn't want to get caught by the Secret Police, after all.” He stashed his tools and stood to leave. “I'll call it in to the Council, see what they think we should do. I'm just... I'm not too happy about this. Angels are too close to – you know – gods and stuff. The concept of heaven. Not something we want to be dealing with. Not again.”

As he put his hand on the porch railing, Josie touched him on the shoulder. He turned back toward her.

“Have you heard about the newcomer yet?” she said gently.

“No?” Earl pinched the bridge of his freckled nose. “It's going to be a busy day, isn't it?”

“He seems human, at least. Says he's a scientist.” Josie gave Earl a long look. “Cecil seems... a bit taken with him.”

Earl's jaw twitched. _Does he, now?_

“This scientist, he's called a meeting at the convention center. Why don't you give me a ride into town? You can deal with the Council and I'll let you know how the meeting goes,” Josie offered.

  


***

  


The meeting did not go well, in Earl's opinion.

The scientist – _Carlos, he’d said_ – had come to Night Vale in order to study its eccentricities. And Cecil had just eaten that up, hadn’t he? “Perfect hair and teeth like a… oh _Cecil_ ,” Earl said to himself under his breath, caught between mild amusement and a twinge of something he refused to acknowledge. Fear. A fear of outsiders. That must be it.

Strange things appeared in Night Vale all the time. Dangerous things were equally common. Strange and dangerous, Earl knew how to handle. He’d been handling those things all his life. But _people_ appearing in Night Vale, seemingly neither strange nor dangerous? This scientist, this Carlos, warranted close study. Especially after Cecil had proclaimed to be _instantly_ in love on live radio. Earl didn’t even know where to start with that one.

He parked in the lot behind the Night Vale Mall and slipped down the alleyway between the Play Ball sporting goods store and the radio station. He stopped about halfway down in front of a large metal door, its chipped green paint faded from the harsh desert weather. He tapped out a code on the door, and a moment later, a young woman in a black balaclava wrenched it open.

“You’re just in time, sir,” she greeted him as he passed into the darkened hallway. She shut and bolted the door before following him into a cramped conference room, boxes of tennis rackets and baseball gloves overflowing in the corner. He nodded to the other officers already seated, another woman and two men, before taking his own seat at the front of the room.

Earl took a moment to survey the table. He was once self-conscious about his place here, but that time had long passed. This small group of men and women had nothing but respect for him now. To his right was Summers, a much older man, perhaps mid-forties with a salt-and-pepper beard; to his left sat Flynn, a woman with sharp, dark eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line. At the other end of the table were the younger squad leaders: Peters, the farmer’s boy, and Johnson, the woman who’d met him at the door, her inked arms crossed over her chest. The scene would probably seem odd to anyone else – Earl himself looked barely a day over nineteen, fresh-faced and lanky, almost a Boy Scout himself. But beneath his russet lashes he wore the weary expression of one who has seen, perhaps, too much.

“How’d it go, boss? We heard a bit on the radio – the angels are privileged information now? But they’re staying?” Peters asked.

“I spoke to the City Council but they don’t think it’s possible to eradicate them at this point. Cecil’s already taken too much interest,” Earl explained, leaning back in the leather chair. “Luckily they haven’t done anything really extraordinary yet. I recommended banning any documentation on angels, anything that he could get too many ideas from, but they decided to take it a step further and simply deny their existence. They've made it illegal to even _think_ about the concept of angels or tiered heavens.” He shrugged. “It’s probably good enough for now. Josie likes having them around, anyway.”

“What about the outsider? Are we allowing him to stay too?” Flynn asked.

“If I may?” Peters broke in, waiting for Earl’s nod. “My squad’s been trailing him and his scientists all day. They’ve been measuring things all over town and calling their results into the station. I think Palmer gave that guy his number at the town meeting,” he explained. “I’m pretty sure he’s next door right now. My guys said he brought a device in to measure something about the recording equipment.”

Earl resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the radio station. _The scientist is with Cecil right now?_ Instead, he leaned forward, resting his tanned forearms on the boardroom table. “He’ll probably be in for a surprise if he tries to collect data on anything of Cecil’s. Okay, well, keep me posted.”

“So we’re not arresting him?” Johnson persisted. She and Flynn exchanged a skeptical glance.

“No,” Earl replied thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the polished wood. “No. Let’s see where this goes for now.”

  


***

  


_“...Settling in to be another clear night and pretty evening here in Night Vale. I hope all of you out there have someone to sleep through it with, or, at least, good memories of when you did. Good night, listeners. Good night...”_

Parked on the shoulder of Route 800, Earl leaned back in the bed of his pickup, listening to Cecil's parting words waft from the cab's radio on the warm night air. He took a slow drag on his hand-rolled cigarette before lazily blowing the smoke toward the ghostly lights hurtling by him on the highway.

There, alone under the void and stars – away from Night Vale, from the people who needed him, from Cecil – Earl finally allowed himself a moment of bitter honesty.

He _was_ afraid of the angels, and all the other strange and dangerous phenomena that had cropped up recently. But he could handle strange and dangerous.

He was afraid of the scientist. Afraid of the possibility of outsiders getting in. But especially, afraid of what Cecil had declared on the radio.

His heart clenched in his chest; he choked on inhaled smoke. More than afraid, then. Jealous.

“Ok, Earl, pity party's over,” he said to himself, crushing the butt of the cigarette into the metal floor of his beat-up truck bed. “Sheriff's got a job to do.”

He hopped out of the truck, slamming the tailgate shut, and reached through the open window of the cab to grab the cell he'd left on the driver's seat. He dialed a familiar number, and it picked up after two rings.

“Yeah, hey, can you bring up the directory? I need the number for wherever that new scientist is staying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Cecil's broadcasts last for several hours during the afternoon and evening in Night Vale, possibly varying in length and sometimes lasting all the way from noon til midnight. We either only hear a shortened portion of what he is saying, or the locals' perception of time is just strange enough that all the timeskipping he seems to do when reporting on events makes sense. I play pretty loose with how long it takes to react to what Cecil's saying compared with the length of the podcast, in any case.


	2. Sheriff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this chapter. I'll try to post specific warnings/triggers at the beginning and a quick summary at the end for people who don't want to read that stuff.

Late afternoon sunlight trickled in through the tiny window of Earl’s office, in the basement of the Play Ball store. He glanced wistfully up at the sunbeam and the clouds above that, thinking of the hover-office the Sheriff was supposed to inhabit. _Can’t risk it, though,_ he reminded himself, turning back to the task at hand. Besides, it was terribly convenient to work right next to the radio station, in case of emergencies.

He had a spreadsheet open on his dusty workstation - this year’s batch of Night Vale’s 10-year-old boys and girls. He scanned the list, checking over the highlighted fields and carefully hand-writing the selected names on the vellum acceptance letters he had arrayed in front of his keyboard.

 _Four boys, three girls. Not as many as I’d hoped,_ he mused, pulling open the top desk drawer to remove a small stack of scarlet envelopes. He carefully folded the letters and slid them into each one.

He was sealing the boys’ envelopes with the wax insignia of the Night Vale Boy Scouts when one of his squad leaders, Ben Summers, rapped on his open door.

“Sir, I’ve got some intern from NVCR on the line, they want to know if they can get a statement from us on this glow cloud thing. Should I patch them through?”

Earl glanced up. “Why not.” He grabbed a handheld vocoder from the second drawer and picked up the phone.

“Sheriff’s Secret Police,” Earl barked in his gruffest voice, pitch modulated downward by the device. “Who am I speaking to?”

 _“Uh, my name’s Chad?”_ came the wavering voice on the phone. _“I need to ask you some questions, you know, for the broadcast.”_

“Make it quick.” He held the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, freeing one hand to finish applying the wax seals.

_“Okay? So, uh, you probably know already, seeing as you’re a Secret Police officer and all but, there’s this cloud – like, a glowing cloud? A glow cloud? It was spotted this morning by John Peters, you know–”_

“What did I _just_ say?” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

_“Oh! Right, uh, a concerned citizen called to say that they saw the something fall out of the cloud? Like, something heavy. Like an armadillo or something. And it fell on a woman’s head? They think… she fell, right? She might’ve died!”_

“First of all, you really need to substantiate that before you report it,” he gritted out.

_“I know, I know, but this is important? Like, it might be an emergency! Aren’t the secret police going to evacuate everyone?”_

“Look, kid. If we had to shut down the town for every mysterious event that at least one death could be attributed to, we’d never have time to do anything, right? We’d be evacuating at least once a week. It’s just not feasible.”

There was a pause on the line. _“Can I quote you on that?”_

Earl squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Sure, fine. Go ahead.”

_“So, what do you suggest we do? If the glow cloud keeps getting closer to downtown?”_

“I mean, you can evacuate yourself, if you want,” Earl suggested, checking the window. The shaft of sunlight had disappeared. “Or, run toward it, shrieking and waving your arms, for all I care. We’re done here.”

Earl hung up the phone a little more forcefully than he meant to and took a deep breath. Summers was still leaning in the doorway, a smirk playing on his face as Earl put the vocoder away.

“Well, that went well,” he said lightly. Earl winced.

“Yeah, yeah. I need you to look into something else for me today – something about a dragon on the freeway. And call in Peters and Johnson, would you? I have another task for them.”

***

Earl stretched and rolled his shoulders back, uncomfortable in the cramped quarters of the SSP surveillance van. He glanced up at the array of screens embedded in the wall of the van. Each one displayed a live feed of the inside of the building across the street – the newly-rented lab.

The subject of interest was currently occupying the screen labelled “3” in sharpie on a piece of masking tape. It had been three hours already but the scientist still seemed to be deeply engaged in the work of micropipetting substances from tiny vials to even tinier vials and watching his centrifuge spin the mixtures down. The rest of the science team popped in and out of the camera’s frame from time to time, engaged in their own tasks.

“He works really hard, doesn’t he?” Johnson said, stretching her neck from side to side.

“Frustratingly so. It’s, what?” Earl’s eyes flicked to the timestamp on the video. “Quarter to four already? He hasn’t taken a break since he got in this morning, has he?”

Earl checked the briefing notes for the third time since they’d parked across from the lab, several hours prior. The subject, Carlos, had a fairly regular routine as far as Peters’ squad had been able to discern so far.

He lived above the lab. He woke up with an alarm at 08:00 each morning (though with the sunrise making such a racket outside, it was a wonder that he needed the alarm). He showered, dressed, and made a pot of tea by 08:30. Usually he took the tea downstairs and began his work promptly. He’d have a bite between 14:30 and 16:00 most days – stopping next door for pizza, or sometimes grabbing a sandwich from a few doors down – and he would finish his work between 18:00 and 19:00, returning to his apartment to fix dinner and sit in front of the television.

There were rare days that he would spend outdoors, collecting data on the strange things he found around town; but these were usually followed by many days of intense experimentation or analysis in the lab itself. He seemed friendly with his colleagues, though not overly so; they frequently went out together after work, but Carlos didn’t often join them.

As far as Earl could tell, Carlos hadn’t had contact with Cecil since the day he’d arrived.

“Sir, look, he’s taking his gloves off,” Peters pointed at the screen from Earl’s other side, interrupting his thoughts. “It looks like he might be getting ready to get lunch, finally.”

Earl nodded. He pulled his black balaclava down over his face and slipped on sleek leather gloves, while his partners did the same. Johnson glanced at the feed.

“He’s moving. Get to the doors,” she instructed, watching the screen and raising her hand. Earl and Peters moved to the back doors of the van, hands resting on the door handles. Peters had a thick black hood in his other hand, and Earl held a small syringe of fluid, prepped hours before.

“Subject has left camera three. Moved to camera two’s feed,” Johnson updated them. After a pause, “He’s on camera one now. Putting his shoes on.” The two men watched for her signal, tensed. “He’s outside now, grabbing his keys…” Her eyes flicked to them, and back to the array of televisions. “Okay, he’s…” She dropped her hand, swiftly and precisely. “Subject is in range. _Go!_ ”


	3. Carlos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well. This situation is definitely… concerning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for drugging, kidnapping and interrogation. If requested I will provide a summary at the end of the chapter.

Something rough scraped against Carlos’ cheek. His body was vibrating – bumping up and down… rugged terrain… the scrublands? An engine rumbled under him. In a moving vehicle of some sort, then, something large enough for him to lie sprawled out on the floor.

He blinked his eyes open, tried to adjust to the light, but there was something blocking his vision. He tried to move, to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy and strangely unresponsive, and he could feel something thin and sharp digging into his wrists. He lay that way for several seconds, thoughts forming sluggishly.

_What in the world happened…? Am I in danger? I feel… slow… drugs?_ For a moment, panic seeped in and he lost the thread of his thoughts. He became aware of his heart pounding. He breathed deep. _Step through it, Carlos,_ he chided himself.

He’d been poring over spreadsheets on his tablet about The House That Doesn’t Exist, compiled data from the devices the other scientists had set up the prior week. He’d gotten distracted by the patterns in the readings, trying to figure out if they were just an artifact of data collection, or simply his mind grasping at connections that didn’t exist, or (his heart skipping a beat) possibly real data – then his stomach had growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten all day.

Right: he’d left the lab to go get lunch (or an early dinner?) at the Subway down the street. But he hadn’t walked five steps from his lab before both of his arms were wrenched behind his back, his assailants a pair of dark blurs in his vision. They’d pulled something over his head – must have been a black hood of some kind. He could feel the fabric of it chafing his cheek now, and his own breath too, warm, wet puffs reflected back onto his face. After the hood, he’d felt a prickle on his neck. _An injection, probably?_ He had struggled, but his knees buckled under him, he pitched forward, dizzy… and whatever happened after that, he couldn’t remember.

_Well. This situation is definitely… concerning._ Carlos tried to keep his breathing even, straining to listen for some kind of clue above the noise of the engine and the sharp pops of gravel hitting the chassis. _Are kidnappings common in Night Vale?_ he wondered. _Wasn’t there something on that strange radio program the other week?_ He wracked his brain for what his kidnappers could want from him. Ransom? He didn’t know anyone here who would put up cash for his safety and he doubted anyone in Night Vale would know how to contact his family or friends back home. His scientific research? It was certainly possible (his data was very interesting after all), but then why take him instead of ransacking the lab? Though, maybe these people had friends who were doing just that. His brow furrowed under the hood.

Carlos was startled out of his musing by an intense thump on the roof of the vehicle, and his body was suddenly thrown against something metal as the driver swerved. Someone cursed; the voice sounded female. The thump was followed by another, and another, and this continued until Carlos felt sure their vehicle must be under siege. The pounding was deafening. _Will the roof withstand this?_

And then, after a few minutes, the bombardment stopped as suddenly as it started. “Thank the Spire,” he heard a man grumble, quite close to him.

For the rest of the ride, Carlos tried to remain limp, letting his body roll with the turns so the people nearby wouldn’t guess he was awake, and honestly it wasn’t that difficult since he could scarcely move anyway. Still, that had earned him a few bruises and probably whiplash. He was starting to regret the decision as the ache in his left shoulder intensified from the most recent impact, but then, mercifully, he felt his stomach flip as the van decelerated. A moment later, the engine’s rumbling died and he heard the familiar jingle of car keys.

Strong hands lifted him out of the van and deposited him onto the ground. The heat of the sun-baked sand burned his skin where it touched him, so he struggled to rearrange himself into a semi-sitting position, hunched over. His wrists were still bound behind his back. He felt sluggish as he pulled himself onto his knees, and the shock of the movement signaled the start of a headache, like his brain was sloshing around in his skull.

Now that he knew they knew he was conscious, he felt panic trying to bubble to the surface again, his heart speeding up. He was sure they could hear it hammering against his ribcage. His breathing was coming fast now too, making him lightheaded. He breathed through his nostrils, trying to calm himself. Whatever the reason for taking him, it would become clear in a few moments. _Focus. Focus, Carlos. How many can you hear? Observe. Collect._

There had been the woman before – the driver? And a man had spoken. _So, at least two._ He strained against the fabric of the hood, heard the scuffling of boots on the sand, the creaking of the vehicle’s frame on the suspension as his assailants moved in and out of the vehicle. He thought maybe he could make out a third – one on either side of him and one in the truck. That would make sense – there had been two sets of hands that grabbed him, plus a driver to help them get away quickly.

Carlos wasn’t given any more time to form his hypothesis.

“What’s your name, scientist?” asked a strange voice. Not human-sounding at all… it was definitely modulated. Was it some sort of Night Vale thing, or just a vocoder? Or was this another effect of the drugs, some kind of hallucination? Was this the voice of the third assailant? Had they been in an accident of some sort, or were they trying to cover up—

_“Your name,”_ the voice insisted again, edgier.

“Oh, um, Carlos,” he stammered out. “Nice to meet you,” he added without thinking, and then mentally kicked himself. _Let’s just… blame that one on the drugs,_ he thought miserably. He heard one of them stifle a snort, but his embarrassment was quickly forgotten as the questions began.

“Where are you from?”

_What should I say?_ Carlos bit the inside of his cheek. This was definitely a problem.

“I’m… well,” he started.

“Spit it out, Carlos. I haven’t got all day.”

Startled again, the words tumbled out, and he couldn’t think fast enough to lie. “I’m– I’m from Ontario. Um, Canada. But I’m studying here! I mean, I was, before I graduated and started the grant. It’s just… I applied for a work permit before I left but it hasn’t arrived yet, and my student visa expired, so…”

He heard the speaker sigh loudly. “We don’t care about that. What is the name of your hometown?”

“Stoney Creek,” he replied automatically, and then bit the inside of his cheek again, hard. _Don’t tell them about your family, Carlos, don’t—_

“Where did you study?”

“I just finished my PhD at Caltech, in—”

“Who are your immediate family members?”

Carlos breathed hard through his nose. “My mom and dad? I’m an only child. Um, can I ask what this—”

“Why are you here?”

Carlos’ head swam. Whatever they gave him was starting to make him feel queasy and the pounding was making it hard to think. “I… at the press conference, I said. I’m here to study Night Vale on a government grant.”

“How did you get here?”

“I– I drove here.”

“You didn’t come in by the highway. Surveillance shows your car was never on Route 800 that day.”

Carlos thought back. _No harm in this story, probably._ “No… I was on a two-lane highway, and getting the feeling I’d gotten turned around. I was almost ready to give up and drive back to the last turn-off, maybe get directions or a map?” he paused, waiting to see if he would be cut off. But it seemed like this was one point his assailants were actually interested in. _Okay… they want to know how I got here. That’s important._ “But it was the strangest thing. There was a sandstorm, seemed like it came from nowhere, almost. The wind picked up so quickly, you wouldn’t believe it. I ended up having to pull over, to wait in my car until it passed. It was just after sunset, getting dark.” He shifted on his knees, which were starting to numb from the position he was in. “I– I was fascinated by the storm, so I set up a sensor on the roof to see if I could collect some data about the wind patterns. Cut my hand up pretty good, too, getting it up there! Anyway, I took a nap while the storm was going. Figured I might as well, right?” he laughed nervously.

“What does this have to do with how you got here? Hurry it up.”

“Right! So, when I woke up, the storm had passed, but my car must have gotten pushed by the wind. The sun was out, and I seemed to be in the middle of the desert. The road was totally gone. My compass app wasn’t working too well either, even though I had pretty good cell reception. So, I hoped I was still pointing in the right direction. Just drove straight. And what do you know, after an hour or so I was in Night Vale! Like, literally in the middle of town. I think the park was the first thing I saw. So, it worked out.”

There was a long pause. _Did I say something wrong?_ He strained against the hood, thought he could hear a low voice, giving instructions. The silence stretched on for longer than he expected. His legs were definitely numb now, and the headache was getting worse. _Is it over?_ Carlos wasn’t sure whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. He swallowed, mouth dry.

“Do you trust the Sheriff’s Secret Police?” the strange voice struck up suddenly.

Carlos blinked. “Um…”

“Answer the question.”

“Are you guys the police? Is that what’s happening?” Carlos struggled to think. They said they didn’t care about the visa being late, but… this questioning was already highly unusual. What could they possibly want with him?

_“Carlos.”_

“Y-yes! I mean, I guess?”

“What year is it?”

“That’s – it’s 2012?”

“What is your mother’s name?”

“Gloria,” Carlos said automatically, and then his heart sank. _No, no, no, that was bad…_

“How old is Cecil Palmer?”

The question cut through Carlos’ panic. Cecil Palmer? The name was vaguely familiar. “Should I… should I know who that is?” he said uncertainly.

A pause. “You met him on the day you arrived.”

“Did I? I met a few—oh!” Was it that guy who’d scrawled his number on the back of the radio station card? _Right, he had introduced himself as Cecil._ “I remember. From the radio. He should really think about relocating. I mean, I warned him about the radiation but—”

_“His age.”_

“Oh, I’d say, maybe mid-thirties? Why ask me though?” he inquired, but hardly expected an answer.

And so the questions went. The strange, disembodied voice asked so many questions – about whether he knew people in town, about major news events from 1983, if he knew who the current Mayor of Night Vale was, who the sitting President was, his area of study, and so on. He was beginning to see the style. Keep him answering quickly, don’t dwell on anything for too long. Which parts were the important parts though? He knew whatever they had injected him with was slowing his normally light-speed thoughts. He was finding it difficult to not say the first thing that came to mind. Some part of Carlos knew he should be much more frightened than he felt, like his body was trying to react to the situation, but something was blocking it. So he used the calm as best he could, by trying to deduce what the point of this was, who these people were, through the content of the questions.

The voice asked what agency had given him the research grant, and Carlos thought _Ah, we’re getting somewhere here._

“It was an NSF grant.”

“NSF?”

“It’s the National Science Foundation. It– it’s quite well-known—”

“Who is Night Vale’s rival town?”

“I… I have no idea?”

“Do you listen to the radio?”

“Sometimes, in the lab. Not really listen though, more like, just for the noise—”

“How long are you planning on staying in Night Vale?”

_They seem awfully interested in their own town. Maybe it really is the police._ “My grant is for a year, but I can apply for an extension if I make an interesting breakthrough.” Carlos was really hoping to make such a breakthrough, but he managed not to say that out loud. He was sweating a lot under the hood now, baking in the afternoon sun, and the headache was becoming a piercing throb behind his right eye. He hoped it would be over soon, whatever that meant.

“What’s Cecil’s middle name?”

_Didn’t… they ask about him already?_ Carlos chewed his cheek, which was starting to feel raw. “I– I already told you, I don’t know anything about that person.”

“What is the make of your car?”

“It’s a Prius, silver, 2011. It’s parked out behind the lab.”

“What kind of cellphone do you own?”

Carlos shook his head slightly. “My… my cell? It’s in my pocket. It’s an HTC.”

“What are you making in your lab?”

Was this it then? Get him to describe his research? “Well, I’m not really _making_ anything. I’m _studying_ things. Scientific things. There are notebooks in the lab, why don’t we go back there and I’ll show you—”

“Writing utensils are illegal in Night Vale, Carlos.”

“Oh! I, uh…I didn’t know that. Um… I won’t do it again,” he stammered. _Police. Definitely… police…_ The dizziness was overcoming. A spot behind his eyes tingled and he felt a fresh wave of nausea. Suddenly, his balance shifted and he was falling forward.

***

Some time had passed. Carlos felt cooler, though the ground beneath him was hard. He was on his back, and his arms were still bound and aching from being held in place for so long, but he felt less ill. He groaned, the sound escaping his throat before he could stop it.

“He’s awake,” the male voice from before murmured to someone. A moment later, hands were lifting him into a sitting position, into a chair of some kind. From the scrape of the metal beneath him and the dip of the suspension as he was moved, he concluded he was back in the van, though it wasn’t moving, and he could still feel a hot breeze.

“Okay Carlos,” said the same mechanical voice, less harshly than before. “It’s over now. The Sheriff thanks you for your cooperation in this investigation.”

“Am I… are we going back?” Carlos’ voice was rough.

“Get him water,” the voice said. Carlos felt the hood being lifted enough to uncover his chin and mouth, a chilled plastic bottle pressed to his lips. He let the hands tip his head back, swallowed the water. He didn’t understand what was happening, but it seemed like everything would be okay. He could trust the authority here, probably.

“We’re going to give you another injection. You’ll wake up in your apartment, and you probably won’t feel well for a day or so. You won’t remember much,” the voice paused.

“You did well.”


End file.
